


Hello, Hope You're Listening

by insufficientemotionalfunds



Series: Hello, Hope You're Listening [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, As Time Goes By - Freeform, Episode Related, Everybody Hates Hitler, Fluff, Gen, LARP and the Real Girl, M/M, Prayer, man's best friend with benefits, remember the titans - Freeform, trial and error
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insufficientemotionalfunds/pseuds/insufficientemotionalfunds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean prays to Castiel every day. He's not sure if the angel is even listening anymore, but that doesn't mean that his prayers go unheard.<br/>A collection of oneshots from the point of view of the supporting characters of each episode, starting at "LARP and the Real Girl" and will continue until Dean's prayers are answered (aka when Cas comes back).</p>
<p>Charlie / Henry / Aaron / Ellie / Portia / Hayley / AND SPECIAL GUEST APPEARANCES BY: Sam / Castiel</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charlie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured something like this hadn't been done yet, and I thought it would be interesting to get inside the side characters' heads... see how they view Dean and how hearing his moments of stark honesty might change it.
> 
> Right. First up: Charlie

Dean Winchester was like the older brother she’d never wanted.

It was more true when they’d first met (the _never wanted_ part, anyway)… back when he was toting around some serious _DH!Ronald-I-just-abandoned-my-best-friend-to-his-probable-death-over-bitchy-jewlery-Weasley_ style guilt— not that he’d said anything, the tight-lipped bastard… Charlie was just awesome with the meta. She hadn’t asked, either, what with the whole “You’d best start believin’ in monster stories, Ms. Bradbury… you’re _in_ one!” But that was okay because, cool as Sam was, Dean was kind of a douchenozzle and she really didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out if Capital-D-Death really did tag along for the ride wherever the Winchesters rolled in.

The Dean Winchester who’d waltzed into the Queen’s tent with an easy smirk the day before had been a whole different animal.

The angst was still there, but according to her research—and really, she should get some sort of award for slogging through _that_ particular fandom. Seriously, those shippers were scary as hell—she should’ve been more worried if it _wasn’t._ But, dark and twisty man-pain aside… when Dean wasn’t lashing out at everything that moved, he was a halfway-decent guy. _More_ than half, if Carver Edlund was anything even approaching a citeable source.

Point was, under the textbook heteronormative exterior, Dean was just… _good._ He was almost painfully kind, disgustingly brave and self-sacrificing, and he was scary smart in a bowlegged Tony Stark kind of way…. In fact, the Stark parallels could stay for the duration of the analysis—right down to the drinking, the daddy issues, and the tantalizing bi-curious hints. (What? She could ship both Pepperony _and_ Stony, fuck you very much.)

She hadn’t been teasing—well… not _completely—_ when she’d asked if he’d suffered a break up. When he wasn’t schooling it, his face slipped into the expression she always imagined Fassbender!Magneto with when he found out that he’d inadvertently paralyzed McAvoy!Xavier— shattered, self-loathing, painfully in love, and sure that it was too late.

It felt like she was missing a chapter… or hell, maybe even a book or ten. Edlund had Sherlock’d it before the promised second series could be published and Dean was pretty tight-lipped about anything before the Leviathans. In fact, there was something he was skirting around _after_ the Leviathan arc, too. During his recap of the Winchesters’ more recent escapades, he would stop mid-sentence seemingly at random, brows furrowing, and glare into the middle-distance for a bit.

Yeah, there was definitely something there, and it had all the teasings of a downright _epic_ doomed—and likely gay—romance. But not with Benny… and _definitely_ not with Sam (sorry, shippers).

So… who was missing? None of the bromances from the books could’ve stuck around A.H. (After Hell), mostly because they were all _dead._ So it was someone new, and he was clearly freaking _awesome_ to have wrapped Dean so snugly around his finger…. She was thinking dark hair, blue eyes, and an underappreciated snark… but to be fair, she’d just rewatched _Torchwood_ and she admittedly had quite the soft spot for the tea boy. Dean had a bit of Harkness about him… it fit.

She was sponging on her warpaint, mentally indexing all the hints of Dean’s mystery romance in an attempt not to think of her own so recently obtained-then-lost love interest, when she heard the muffled voice start up on the other side of the canvas.

It was obviously Dean—that drawl was not to be mistaken and the fangirls had _no_ idea what they were missing out on… someone should think about a _Supernatural_ TV show or movie or something, seriously.

Wiping off her hands, she crept around the vanity and knelt to slowly part the overlapping tent walls and peer curiously out.

Dean was plonked down on his ass a few feet away, face plastered in red and white makeup, with his wooden sword propped against the pile of crates beside him. She’d thought for a second that he was on the phone, but both hands were tangled in a ridiculous-looking blond wig, and he didn’t seem like the Bluetooth type.

“—I dunno, man,” he was muttering to himself, picking absently at the fake hair with a lopsided grin, “It’s fun. It’s something I really wanted to try when I was a kid but— well, you know… we moved around a lot and we were never in one place long enough…. It’s cool, though. Swords and big battles and people yelling old-timey insults at each other.” He paused, snorting as he ducked his head with a wry smirk. “It’s actually kinda how I always pictured you and Raphael during the war. Fucker really loved to monologue, didn’t he— she? Uh….”

_What… the hell?_ Was Dean talking to an imaginary friend about the Ninja Turtles?

“Anyway. Bet your sets were a lot more epic— more Helms Deep than Dungeons and Dragons. We’ll have to stop by when you get back. I bet you’d take to it real quick. Friggin’ Shadow Orcs’ll never know what hit ‘em when Castiel, Elf of the Lord makes his grand debut.” He frowned thoughtfully. “No actual smiting, though, ‘kay? Hopefully the bad makeup’ll be enough to convince you they’re not _actually_ Orcs… or, uh… demons….” Pursed lips and an incredulous grimace preluded an amused snort. “Okay, new plan: remind me to show you _Lord of the Rings,_ and we’ll watch all the behind-the-scenes stuff to make sure you can differentiate. We’ll have a marathon… maybe get in the beer and bacon we missed out on last time?”

Well. _That_ certainly sounded like a date. And an awesome one, at that. Well-played, Dean.

He swallowed, head tilting back to look up at the cloudy sky with so much hope that Charlie felt her stomach clench.

“What d’ya say, angelcakes? You, me… bucket of popcorn…? Or I can get some Red Vines… you liked those, right? No black licorice, though. That shit’s an offense against your _dad_. I don’t care about his policies on free will, he should’ve stepped in when they were cooking _that_ up.” He gnawed his bottom lip uncertainly, before huffing a little half-laugh. “Eh, who’m I kidding? You know I’ll get you the black licorice if you want. Just this once, though… and don’t tell Sam I let it in the motel room. Can’t have him knowin’ I break the rules, right? Even for you. He’d never let me live it down.”

_Oh._ Charlie felt her breath hitch. Wrapped around his finger, indeed.

“I’ll… uh… make sure the motels have DVD players. So, just… pop down sometime, huh? Whenever you want, buddy, no pressure. I— er… _Sam’s_ — **_we’ve_** been worryin’ about you, after you disappeared so fast. So maybe you could… y’know, just let us know you’re okay? You _are,_ right? You’d… tell us if something was up?”

His eyes tilted skyward once more, and the pained longing etched across his face sent Charlie reeling. She dropped the canvas closed, hitting the floor in a mess of vicarious emotion even as the last murmurs of his… _prayer_ (there was nothing else she could possibly call it) filtered through the cloth.

“Right.” He sighed, and the sound was horribly weary and beaten. “I should sign off. Your voicemail’s probably getting pretty full, huh? So, yeah, anyway….” There was a short, heavy silence before a shifting and crunching signaled him getting to his feet. “We… I miss you, Cas. Come home? Y’know… if you want.” He fumbled loudly with his sword for a second, before dull footsteps headed off in the direction of the field.

_Holy crap. Careful what you wish for, girl._ Charlie got shakily to her feet. _Can you say ‘parallels?’_ That had sounded a bit too familiar. _‘Call me… maybe?’_ Jeez.

Although, to be fair… the idea of gruff, stoic Dean Winchester pining after a fairy-boy _was_ kind of hilarious…. Throw in Oberon and a shit-ton of glitter and she was pretty sure she had the script for the first episode of that _Supernatural_ show…. _Not_ that she was planning it, or anything— but, _really_ , someone should look into that.

Or maybe not fairies…? Dean’d been hinting pretty hardcore at the biblical there for a while. So… angels? Preeeetty sure Raphael was a cherub or something before he took up painting and was then transfigured into a talking reptile. Yeah, that seemed more likely, what with the demons…. And Hell had already played a big part in his character arc and—

Holy _shit_ , Dean wanted to bone an angel. _Wow,_ blasphemous. It just figured that she finally got a halfway decent handmaiden and he was on a one-way track to a righteous smiting. Sigh.

_Well_. If nothing else….

A weak smile bloomed through the overwhelmed mess of _Good Omens_ flashbacks attacking her brain as she stumbled back toward the vanity.

 Cas. _Castiel._ At least now Mr. Blue-eyed, Dark, and Snarky had a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Henry
> 
> So, this is actually kind of an exercise in characterization? I'm working on changing the voice of the piece with each individual. I dunno. We'll see how it turns out.


	2. Henry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now Playing: Grandpa Winchester!

Dean Winchester was not how he had imagined his bloodline ending.

And it _was_ the end, Henry knew. The life of a hunter was a brief—if _bright—_ flicker of flame in a torrential downpour. The hunter screamed into the darkness; raged and fought and always, inevitably, _lost…_ fell to let the next take his place and continue the never-ending, bloody cycle.

To think of Dean and Sam—his grandsons… his _legacy—_ walking themselves blindly into the gaping maw, like lambs to the slaughter, only because they lacked the knowledge of their own inheritance… it broke his heart. He _could_ see the good in them; they were _Winchesters,_ how could he not? They were knowledgeable enough, efficient and driven and strong… but in the end, they were _just hunters_. And what were hunters compared to Men of Letters, but foot soldiers to their general? His grandchildren had no place laying their lives down on the altar of the hunt.

And _he_ had put them on that path. He had failed them… failed John— failed his _family._ He had ruined them all.

In his doomed attempt to protect the Men of Letters, he had sealed its fate, abandoned his son, robbed his grandsons of their birthright. Everything that his brethren had dedicated their lives, their most precious resources, their very _blood_ to protect… gone. His legacy, _lost._

He wondered about John; the child he had left to grow into a man alone, abandoned to learn on his own just how dark the shadows of the world truly were. He thought about Dean; the man who encased himself in an armor of razor-sharp barbs and hid his heart away behind impenetrable walls, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of a world he could never save. He pitied Sam; the boy thrust into manhood before his time, loss and grief reflected in eyes too old for him… eyes that told of the years he would never live to see.

He mourned what might have been. How differently would things have turned out if only Sam and Dean had been gifted the weapon of knowledge instead of guns? Would they still be alone, left to their own devices without an ally to call on?

If only he could go back. If he could return to John… teach his son the way of the Men of Letters and set his descendants on the proper road to their destiny—

But that road was closed to him now.

Abaddon had Sam. And Dean would get his brother back. If there was one thing the Winchesters didn’t need to be taught, it was that family came first, no matter the cost.

And Henry would willingly pay that price. If he could not stop this desolate future from coming to pass, the least he could do was make sure the boys walked away to meet it head on. They would fall—sooner rather than later—as all hunters did, but he would be damned if it would be on this day.

Sam and Dean had to carry on. There was no peace to be had amidst the eternal howling from the darkness, no rest while the world was awash with the filth of Hell. The Winchesters would stand against evil until the last man… even if it seemed like that man was currently sitting beside him.

The low growl of an engine greeted Henry upon his return to consciousness. He stilled immediately, taking in the cool leather beneath him, the hum of the motor against his cheek where it was pressed into the car door. He listened to the silence, memory and realization of his— _their_ —current situation momentarily striking him dumb.

His companion cleared his throat and it sounded almost like an inquiry. "You awake over there, old man?"

Henry didn’t reply, choosing instead to reckon with his grief alone.

After a moment of silence, Dean let loose a quiet breath of relief before speaking. “Cas?” His voice was strained, rasping over the single syllable and Henry frowned slightly in confusion. Who—or _what_ —was the boy talking to? “C’m _on_ , man,” Dean whispered, “Dean Winchester to Castiel… _come in, Castiel.”_

Henry consciously relaxed his shoulders, rolling bonelessly with the movements of the car. Dean was invoking the Angel of Thursday? He hadn’t expected Dean to be a man of faith— he didn’t seem to have enough even for his own blood, let alone a higher power. And of all angels, Castiel? Surely an entreaty to another… perhaps even Michael himself… would have been better suited to the situation?

“Seriously, Cas,” Dean continued after a beat, “I ain’t playin’ around here. If you were planning on popping in any time soon, _now_ would be great.” He paused, and the car seemed to hold its breath along with him. “It’s a shitstorm down here, dude. I could really use your help. They—” He swallowed, breath hitching. “Cas, they’ve got Sammy. _Please.”_

A hopeful silence reigned for a moment, desperation rolling off of Dean in waves.

 _“Fuck!”_ the hunter hissed with a quiet snarl, accompanied by the sound of his hand pounding against the steering wheel. “This is _bullshit,_ man! I’ve been praying for _weeks,_ where the hell are you!? What happened to always coming when I call, huh!? Well, I could really fuckin’ use some of that smiting mojo about now, you feathery asshole. So, if you’d be so kind as to maybe put in an appearance?” The engine of the Impala roared back at him as the car began to pick up speed. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering me!? Need I remind you what was goin’ down last time you were ignoring me? I swear to _God,_ Cas, if you’re dead again I will fucking _kill_ you.”

Dean released a long, shuddering breath and the electric rage of the atmosphere seemed to deflate along with him. _“Cas,”_ he pleaded and Henry felt his chest constrict around the hopeless need in the other man’s voice. “Please. I can’t— I can’t _do_ this, man. I can’t take this anymore. First you… now Sam? How’m I s’posed to—?” He cleared his throat. _“Why_ aren’t you answering me? I thought maybe… maybe you just needed some time? I mean, I’d get that— I _would._ You lost a brother. Hell, you lost the only decent one you had! It _sucks,_ I know! But— I mean… I’m starting to get really worried down here, okay? You fluttered off real quick back there. I thought you wanted to stay out of Heaven and now suddenly you’re back in the flock? My bullshit senses are tingling. _What’s going on?”_

Henry could hear the hunter’s teeth grinding, his fingers tapping restlessly against the wheel.

“Okay, look, I’ll get Sam back. You _know_ I will, ‘cause anything else is— it’s just not an option. So, don’t worry about that. But… I’m at a loss here, buddy. I guess… when you said you wanted to be a hunter, I thought—” Henry wished that he could subtly knock himself back into unconsciousness. Dean’s voice had turned soft and hesitant, private and clearly not meant for anyone but ‘Cas.’ He should not be hearing anything his grandson said in such an intimate tone. “I thought you were gonna stick around? Uh, _permanently,_ I mean. Which... you know that’s _okay,_ right? Me ‘n’ Sammy, we— you’re our _family,_ Cas. And yeah, maybe we ragged on you—well, okay, _I_ ragged on you—but you know I was just teasing, right? If you wanna be a hunter, I’m behind you a hundred percent.” An audible smile snuck into the babble of words. “I’ll teach you everything I know and you’ll be the best damn hunter in the country… as long as you quit with the weird corpse-smelling crap, anyway…. But you gotta _be_ here. I can’t teach you squat when you’re dickin’ around upstairs.”

It was interesting that prayer—no matter how unconventionally performed—truly seemed to have a calming affect on Dean, and Henry had to wonder if it was the act itself, or the intended recipient which soothed the hunter. He assumed it was the latter.

“Unless… this is what you want?” Dean asked hesitantly, and the dull hurt he exuded at the thought was palpable, but he pushed through it. “If you wanna go back to Heaven, that’s fine. _Whatever you want_ , Cas, _seriously._ As long as it doesn’t end with your wings scorched into a cloud somewhere, it’s all good. But you’re always welcome… here— with us. Baby’s backseat’s got your name all over it. And we— _I_ … I _want_ you here, you know that, right?” The seat bobbed with a creak as Dean collapsed back into it, exhausted. “You ‘n’ Sammy— I just… I want you to be safe, okay? I’ve lost you too many times. I can’t do it again, it— it’ll _break_ me, man. So, please. Just a quick fly-by check in? Or _call,_ even, I don’t care— that’s what I bought you the damn phone _for._ Just tell me you’re okay. Come home, Cas, please. Even if it‘s just for a second. I need my family safe.”

Henry must have made a quiet noise of commiseration or something of the like, because the atmosphere of the car suddenly tensed.

“Right,” the hunter ground out, “I’ll just go save the sasquatch without your help then, you dick. Over and out.”

Dean faded into a stiff silence, and Henry took that as his cue to make a show of rousing himself. He shifted slowly, pointedly dragging himself up to glance at the other man across the seat.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Dean rasped without looking at him, and Henry assumed the apology was for the asphyxiation rather than the likely uncomfortable display of emotion. He knew Dean must have believed him to be unconscious; the boy would never have opened up if Henry could hear his pleas.

He swallowed, taking in his grandson in this new light.

Maybe all was not quite lost. Somehow, miraculously, Dean and Sam were able to count an _angel_ as _family._ At the very least, that explained how two hunters who lived out of their car somehow had angel feathers just laying around— Lord knows those things were hard to come by at the best of times. But the Winchesters, it seemed, had earned their very own guardian angel. Perhaps there was hope yet.

 _‘Castiel,’_ he beseeched mentally, even as, aloud, he gave Dean the answer that would allow the man to save face, _‘Watch over my grandsons. Please. Watch over your family.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Aaron


	3. Aaron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry wasn't too popular, huh?  
> Well, here's Aaron. He was just so awkward, but at the same time really confident and damnit, I refuse to believe that he wasn't actually flirting!

Dean Winchester was exactly his type.

Which was unfortunate really, since he’d turned out to be a raging psychopath.

But still, he was undeniably sex on legs and Aaron would _not_ have been opposed to tailing him even if his grandfather’s death hadn’t played a major role in the necessity. Okay, that sounded pretty bad. To restate and _not_ come off like an insensitive prick, Aaron would've been totally down if Dean hadn’t psyched himself out at the last second.

It was clearly not to be, though. As far as Aaron was concerned, he’d officially dodged a bullet there and he made a point of mentally thanking Dean’s internalized homophobia for steering him clear of a one-night stand—oh, who was he kidding… a longer run had maybe crossed his mind, too—that probably would’ve placed him in the path of a grisly death. Shit. Again with the sounding like a dick.

Not that the psychopath thing was a complete deal-breaker, to be fair. He’d be lying to himself if he claimed that Dean sassing a Nazi down the barrel of gun hadn’t been _ridiculously_ hot. But that was just it. Dean had sassed a _Nazi—_ an undead _supernatural **Nazi—**_ down the barrel of a gun that had seemed like an extension of his arm with all the ease of someone who dealt with shit like that every day. Because _he did._ Immortal zombie Nazis were just another day at the office—Chevy Impala?—for Dean Winchester and his gargantuan brother. There was just _way_ too much baggage there.

Especially when combined with his own newly bequeathed luggage of complete and utter _bullshit._ _(Yeah, **thanks** Bubbee. Worst inheritance **ever.)**_

So, yeah. Ships passing in the night and all that. Though _yes,_ he would’ve been _more_ than willing to be the guy to strip Dean of whatever hang-ups he had about his sexuality… among other things.

He’d honestly been pretty shocked when the other man hadn’t socked him in the face and beat a hasty retreat the second ‘eye-magic’ had come into the equation. And _yikes…_ ‘eye-magic?’ Definitely not his best line… but seriously, dude was kind of distracting with those big green eyes and pretty pink lips…. And that _sucked—_ heh—cause he kind of had the feeling that if he hadn’t faltered and given Dean the time to over-think… his night would have ended much more pleasantly. Sex was probably way out of the picture still—or should he say ‘way out of the closet?’—but they could’ve at least gotten in a nice drunken make out before bitchy brothers and golems and—oh, _right—_ fucking _Nazis_ crashed the party. He wondered if Dean had one of those Last Night on Earth speeches…?

But _no._ It _clearly_ wasn’t in the cards. Aaron had a whole new fuck-ton of responsibility to sort out, while Dean had his monster hunting day job and seemed to be married to his work.

So, the second he could stop dwelling on freckled cheeks that flushed just so and the hand that had reached so tentatively across the table—for the _badge,_ fuck his life—he’d be set. Yeah. Any time now.

_Fuck._

Hey, it wasn’t _his_ fault that Hollywood had instilled the expectation that the movie wasn’t over till the handsome hero got a thank you kiss from the—what was the guy version of damsel?—in distress. He’d figure out who was cast in which role later. Whatever… he was _at least_ getting his kiss, damnit!

And so, Aaron found himself fidgeting in front of the door to the Winchesters’ motel room, agonizing over whether to knock or just let it go. Really, he was probably only so fixated because the guy had saved his life, anyway. Surely he wouldn’t really regret the missed opportunity as much as he felt he would?

But the flash of unexpected hurt in Dean’s eyes when he’d—well, _kind of—_ lied about the motive behind the flirting played through his mind again and a surge of determination shot his fist toward the door.

He glanced around when there was no answer, searching out the black bulk of that distinctive car and not finding it in the lot. His heart fell. So, that was it. They were gone, and he’d missed his chance. It hurt more than he felt it had any right to. Seriously, it was just a little flirting between— _what the hell did you call someone you survived a zombie-Nazi attack with!?_ —but… it _could_ have been more. _Probably._ Maybe? He swallowed unhappily, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he turned and headed back to his car. Guess he’d never know, now.

He was rounding the back of his rental when the growl of the—crap, even his freaking _car_ was sexy as hell—Impala made itself known at the entrance of the parking lot. He watched it turn in the direction of the empty space next to him and, in a moment of really stupid panic, ducked around to the other side of the car and hunkered down.

It was suddenly very, _very_ important that Dean not know he had come crawling back.

He felt like a complete retard hunched on the asphalt with his back to the passenger door, listening to tires crunch to a halt across the length of his car. _‘Seriously, you dumb asshole,’_ he snapped at himself mentally as the Impala’s engine fell silent, leaving nothing but the quiet strains of classic rock wafting into the evening through the open windows, _‘Just… get up and tell him why you’re here. He was interested. He was willing. You’re never gonna see him again, what’s the worst that could happen?’_

Clonking his head back against the car, he took a deep breath before twisting and pressing up just enough to peek over the edge of the door, ready to duck back down if Dean noticed. Luckily, the hunter was absorbed in his phone and couldn’t care less about the creepy Jewish dude stalking him from the next parking spot.

This was a new low.

Dean frowned, licking his lips contemplatively as he glared down at the display of his cell before glancing in the direction of the motel room—Sam was still there and he hadn’t answered? _What a douchewad!_ —with a vulnerable look that made Aaron’s chest clench empathetically. Gritting his jaw, he clearly made a decision, jabbing violently at the phone and lifting it hurriedly to his ear.

Aaron watched as his shoulders slumped a little more and more toward abject defeat the longer the call went unanswered, before he finally gave a heavy, disappointed sigh and dropped his head against the steering wheel, eyes clenched shut.

“Hey,” he mumbled, sounding exhausted as one hand rose to rub unhappily at his jaw, “Just figured I’d try givin’ you a call… y’know, in case you actually turned angel radio off again, and I’ve just been talking to myself like a jackass for a month.” He sat up, seeming to forcibly shake off the weight of his disappointment.

‘Angel radio?’ What the hell was that? Was it some bizarre hunter code?

“Soooo… yeah, just checkin’ in. I guess straight-up beggin’ isn’t working— so maybe… I can tempt you down from your fluffy cloud with all the fun you’re missing out on?” he quipped snarkily, stretching in the seat with forced nonchalance. “Seriously, I don’t wanna hear it when you get back and it’s all boring demons again. _You’re_ ignorin’ _me,_ so it’s your own fault you’re missing the Nazi necromancers.”

Aaron felt his own lips stretch to mirror the giddy little grin that Dean was suddenly sporting.

 _“Yeah_. You heard me. _Nazi. **Necromancers.**_ Classic. I feel like Indiana friggin’ Jones over here. Man, I would totally rock a bull whip, too, wouldn’t I? Actually, no, that’s perfect! I’m Indy, Sam can be Salah—he’s big and brainy enough for it, anyway—and _you…_ uh. Hm.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You can be— no, that wouldn’t work. Well.” He smirked and Aaron kind of really wished that that smile was directed at him, _wow._ “I guess that leaves you as… what’s the Indy version of a Bond Girl? A Jones Girl? Nah, that’s boring. Oh well. _Anyway._ You get to be the Winchester Girl, doll face.”

Oh. Aaron’s stomach dropped unpleasantly. Wow, had he ever read the situation wrong. Dean had a girlfriend. Maybe the cute flustered stumbling had just been a dude trying really hard to politely get away from an uncomfortable situation. Shit.

Dean continued with a stupidly happy little grin that Aaron found himself hating the chick who owned the voicemail for. “You’ve got the know-it-all Marion sass… which is good ‘cause the shrieky one from _Temple of Doom_ was annoying as all fuck and Elsa was a friggin’ _Nazi_ and— you have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about.” He snorted, shaking his head fondly. “Add the Indiana Jones trilogy to our To Watch list, okay? You’ve got quite a bit of movie-watching to do, buddy, you might wanna—” He went suddenly still, mouth dropping open as his eyes widened almost comically. “Um.” He coughed uncomfortably. “Do you… ever just stop and… suddenly realize that the thing you said a couple seconds ago was probably the stupidest thing that’s ever been said in the history of _ever?”_ He winced, clearing his throat. “No, probably not…. Well, er— uh… I just had that moment.” He slumped, head banging off the steering wheel again. “Yup,” he groaned, “I definitely just flirted with an angel, didn’t I? Damnit, Cas, aren’t guardian angels s’posed to stop their humans from doing stupid shit? I mean— _fuck. Not_ that I’m _your_ hu—”

His mouth snapped shut and he listened for a second, probably to the voicemail informing him he‘d reached his time limit, his brows furrowed. Then he drew the phone away from his ear and threw it forcefully at the passenger seat before burying his face in his arms on the wheel.

 _“Damnit,”_ he hissed, and he sounded painfully weary and more than a little heartbroken. Apparently the work-related baggage was only the tip of the iceberg. “Why do I even bother? You’re not even listening anymore, are you, you _son of a **bitch!?”**_ He half-shouted the last bit, wrenching open the door and hurling himself to stand on the asphalt, arms thrown wide as he glared up at the twilit sky. “Cas? _Castiel...!_ If you were _listening—_  if you _cared…_ you’d be _down_ here! If you gave a shit, you’d _be_ here and I wouldn’t—” He collapsed against the Impala, hiding his face in one shaky hand. “I wouldn’t‘ve even _thought_ about following through with Aaron.” He laughed a bit manically. “Fuck. Are you _punishing_ me? Is this what I get for having my head up my ass for six years? For being too fuckin’ _thick_ to notice the way you—?” The laugh ripped itself free again, but sounded a bit more like a sob.

Dean went still for a long moment of silence before he stood slowly to his full height. His head was lowered, chin resting against his clavicle as he spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Cas. I’m _so_ goddamn sorry. I’m so fuckin’ stupid.” When he raised his eyes toward the heavens once more, they shimmered wetly as the streetlamp flickered to life. “Please tell me it’s not too late. You haven’t given up on me, have you? Hell knows I’d deserve it— dunno why you ever had so much faith in me anyway…. But just— give me another chance, Cas. It’s what we do, isn’t it? _I_ fuck up, you give me another chance… _you_ fuck up, I give you another chance…. Don’t crap out on me _now,_ angel, _please._ Not when I’ve finally caught up to where _you‘ve_ been for _years._ You waited this long, don‘t give up now.”

A door slammed open and shut somewhere at the other end of the motel and Dean crumpled.

“So, that’s it, huh…? I get it. Loud and clear. Nothin’ worth your time down here anymore.” He sighed, raking a hand back over his head tiredly. “I’d ask you to come home… but I guess I’m not—” He grimaced and kicked absently at the front tire of the Impala. _“This_ isn’t home anymore, is it? If it ever _was…._ Whatever, you ungrateful dick, I’m _done.”_ He turned toward the motel, grumbling the last words as he walked. “I’m done if you are, Cas.”

Aaron rose slowly to his feet, watching the hunter scrub roughly at his face in the bright glow of the overhead light before shoving the motel room door open with an overly boisterous shout of his brother’s name. He watched as the door slammed shut before silently rounding the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, and turning the key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...What? There's no way this whole thing with Cas didn't play at least a minor role in Dean suddenly going manic all over the Batcave and not having a light at the end of the tunnel.
> 
> So... Ellie next?


	4. Ellie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate that Ellie follows Aaron. I had so much fun with Aaron and you all seemed to like him, and now I have to give you this piece of crap.
> 
> Sorry in advance that it actually sucks.

Dean Winchester was not what she had been expecting. 

Ellie knew his type; the loud, brash, ridiculously good-looking drifter who swept in and out faster than a summer storm— nice wrapping, nothing to get worked up about when you rip into it. And to be fair, once the howling started… once her home was invaded and Death came knocking and the clock she hadn’t even known existed began the countdown to her final hours… that wrapping was all she’d been interested in. 

He definitely wasn’t the first farmhand she’d taken to her bed… but he  _would_  be the last. She’d wanted the comfort and familiarity of a hot body and there he was— gorgeous and so very available. She'd seen those green eyes wander... she knew how appreciation sat in a glance, and Dean was interested, alright. So that was it; stage set. Good booze, better music, and a warm body between her legs... and then... she wouldn't be exactly...  _ready_ to meet her fate, but— close enough, maybe.

And then the mask that was Dean had fallen away and she'd come face to face with  _Dean_   _Winchester._

She hadn’t asked for a savior. Honestly, she’d just wanted the most basic of comforts before shuffling quietly off to the worst eternal reward she could think of. She hadn’t  _wanted_  a hero. But that was what she’d gotten. 

She  _wasn’t_  ashamed of the way she had acted. It was her last night on Earth; she’d seen something she wanted and had reached out to take it. Was that so wrong? No. It was normal… it was  _human._ So she’d asked him for a quick roll in the hay, and instead... Dean had given her her  _life._

How… how do you  _cope_  with that? How do you say  _‘thank you'_  for that? 

She would have given him  _anything._  Literally, anything. What little she had was  _his..._  without question, without holding back. And in the end, he didn’t want any of it. Whatever interest... whatever passing fancy she'd thought she'd seen in those eyes.... At the end of the night, when push came to shove, Dean Winchester looked at her… and he saw a life, a tick-mark in a long line of other tick-marks on his way to...  _something_. She wasn't a shot at happiness, she wasn't a friend... hell, she wasn't even a quick, easy fuck. She was just a pit stop on his way to something bigger. Weirdly, that didn't hurt as much as it should. Because he wasn't any of those things to her, either.

She just wished... that maybe she could have offered him the same comfort she needed. Give them both a little warmth in the face of the long, dark night.

But in the end, he just didn't want her.

Maybe it was something else. There were things she didn't know—  _obviously._ The horrors she'd seen were probably only a brief glimpse into a life that she really didn't want to know about. So, no... she couldn’t say, she didn’t know him. All she knew was that he’d wanted her to live because he didn’t think she deserved to die, and so she was  _alive._

It wasn’t  _about_  sex— not anymore, at least. It was about gratitude.

She was exhausted. Her thoughts were all over the place... they weren't even making sense to  _her,_  and she was the one thinking them! Downside of being mostly drunk for your near-death experience, she supposed. She needed to pack, to  _sleep—_ God, she was  _alive—_ to run and live and take the chance she'd been given so freely. But first....

When she rounded the corner, Sam was heading in her direction. He gave a weak smile in greeting before he stopped short, wincing as he rolled his right shoulder and stretched his arm out like he was trying to soothe away a muscle cramp. 

“Sam?” she asked, stepping cautiously up to his side and resting a gentle, worried hand on his forearm, “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he grunted, shaking his head with a grimace before clearing his throat and meeting her gaze, “I’m good. How about you?” His hazel eyes were wide and shining with empathy and it twinged something deep inside.

 _She_  had been the one to make a deal, and yet somehow, this man and his brother had been the ones to pay the price. She didn’t know what had happened—didn’t  _want_  to know—but the fact was, that monster had come for  _her_  and Sam and Dean had been the ones to walk away bloody. It wasn’t right. “No….” she sighed, averting her gaze, “Not right now, at least. Is Dean—?”

Sam pursed his lips, eyes darting to follow hers as she glanced back toward their room. “He’s packing. Listen, Ellie— I know you’re scared and… you’re going through a lot of stuff, but Dean isn’t—”

She shook her head, stung. “No, no. That’s not it. I don’t want—” She sighed. “I just want to say ‘thank you,’ okay?” She reached out once more, lightly taking one of Sam’s large hands between both of hers. “To  _both_  of you.” Sam’s fingers curled gently around her own, squeezing lightly, and she smiled. “You saved my life. You could’ve walked away, but you didn’t.”

He grimaced guiltily. “Well, actually—”

“No, I know. There was another reason you were here, I get that. But, still… I should’ve  _died..._  and... you and Dean made sure I didn’t. Just…  _thank you.”_

A small smile stretched Sam’s lips. “You’re welcome,” he said warmly before drawing his hand back and tipping his chin in the direction of the door. “Tell Dean I’ll be in the car.”

Ellie nodded, returning the warm smile as she watched him amble away, and then turned back toward her goal. She sucked in a slow, steadying breath as she walked the length of the hall and paused in front of the door, arm raised. A flicker of movement caught her attention and she peeked curiously through the tiny crack between the open door and the jamb, watching Dean as he systematically wrenched the zipper of his duffel closed. She bit her lip, uncertain as to why the man’s slow, stilted movements were causing her to pause, but determinedly drew her hand back, ready to knock.

“Hey Cas?” She froze as Dean’s voice drifted though the doorway in a quiet rasp, shifting instinctively behind the wall beside the door as she watched his head fall wearily back, his eyes clenching tight as he spoke to the ceiling. “You, uh… accepting calls up there?” He cleared his throat, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t blame you if you _were_ screenin‘ me, man… I was kind of a dick last time.” With a sigh, he collapsed onto the edge of the bed, clasping his hands between his spread legs and bowing his head. "I just.... End of the day, we  _all_  know my track record with friends is— well... I can't really afford to piss off the ones I have. You 'n' Sam, Cas... you're all I got left. So, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I'm the douchebag who can't talk about his feelings without—"

Ellie rocked back on her heel hesitantly. For all that Dean couldn’t  _actually_  be talking to anyone—a fact that she was much less certain about after the night she'd had, anyway—it felt like she was intruding on a very private moment. She should leave. She should leave Dean to his empty room and start getting on with the life he'd given her. But the exhaustion audible in his voice was as bone-deep as her own, and so she stayed.

 "Cas, buddy... I got no one else to talk to. It's been a crapfest down here. I'd go into the delightfully gory details... but why bother? Everything sucks, business as usual— just another day in the life of the Winchesters." He groaned, shoving his hands back through his hair and burying his face in his forearms. "And _now..._ now my baby brother's walking himself into the fire again." His breathing hitched and his fingers twisted into his hair until the knuckles glowed white in the dim lamplight.

Ellie twisted away from the cracked door, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes. What kind of life did these boys lead that once they stepped over the corpse of one nightmare they just walked right into another? 

"It should be me, Cas. It should be  _me."_  

'Cas' still didn't respond, and she took a deep breath, dropping her head silently back against the wood. Maybe _this_ was how she could thank him? He didn't need physical comfort, he didn't even need the words... maybe he just needed somebody to  _listen._

"Sammy...." Dean continued after a beat, sounding more weary than any man his age had a right to. "He's always been the one with a future— Stanford, Jess... now maybe the Men of Letters... I dunno, but he's always had the option, y'know? But  _me?_  I—" He laughed hollowly.  _"Every time_  I think maybe there's something to look forward to... it either goes to shit like Cicero or...." He swallowed and his voice broke weakly as he whispered, "Or it flutters off without a word." There was a long pause, before Dean huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. "Sam _'sees a light at the end of the tunnel...'"_ He laughed bitterly."But I just... I'm losin'  _sight_  of it, Cas. Every day, the tunnel's longer or the light's gettin' dimmer or... maybe it's just not there anymore? I... don't even know if you're there anymore."

Ellie leaned around to peek through the crack once more, drawn by the tired, dying hope his voice exuded. Dean's eyes were darting absently across the ceiling, his hands twisting in his lap as he continued to speak, desperate for a response that seemed like it would never come.

"Sam's all up in arms about it, of course... you know how he is. Went off on all the shit I've got to live for, like I even  _have_  more than two things anymore...." Dean sighed, dropping his gaze to his hands. He licked his lips, brow furrowing, and then a tiny, broken-looking little grin stretched across his lips. "Y'know he asked me to  _believe_ in him? Like I ever  _stopped?"_  He laughed incredulously. "Hell, even when I  _didn't,_ I still  _did._  Because it's  _Sam._ I'll believe in him 'til I take the final trip downstairs." He shook his head fondly, smiling down at his own fingers as they twisted in his lap. "Him and... and  _you._  I believe in  _you,_ Cas. I know I don't say it, at least not _enough..._ but I do."

The smile slipped seamlessly into a frown, like he'd just given up on the effort of keeping it. His eyes hardened as he raised them once more to the ceiling and stared straight through it. "I  _do_ know you're not just ignorin' me, angel," he said quietly, firmly, "I know you better than that. I think there's something else going on... something keepin' you away. I don't know if I need to be _scared_ yet, or if... maybe you're just catching up on all the paperwork you've probably had piling up...? But just so we're clear—" He got to his feet, visibly steeling himself against whatever force he believed to be keeping his friend from him. "I  _do_ believe in you and I  _know_  you don't need saving... but if I don't hear from you soon, I  _will_  figure out a way to come and get you. Those feathery dicks better think again if they think  _Heaven_  can keep me out. I'll pick the lock on those pearly gates of yours if I have to. Capisce?" He licked his lips, squaring his shoulders as his resolve settled over them like armor. "You're on the clock here, blue eyes. Don't think I won't summon your ass. So get it down here before I have to."

He reached for the duffel at the foot of the bed, hefting it up over his shoulder and Ellie jerked in a panic, ready to bolt for the next room down, but he paused halfway through his turn toward the door. Biting at the corner of his mouth, he closed his eyes, seeming to struggle with himself over something for a second before he said, "Remember the bunker? Dear old granddad's secret lair I was tellin' you about? Well, it's actually— it's pretty kickass once you disinfect the hell out of it. We've got rooms and everything. My room is friggin'  _awesome."_  He grinned, and it subtracted years from his face. "You're gonna  _love_  it. And you— you can have one too... if you want... or... well—" He took a slow, deep breath, but it seemed less like he was trying to steady himself and more like he was trying to keep himself in check. "I guess I wouldn't mind a roommate too much. It's not like you'd make a mess or anything.... So... yeah, there's that." And his shoulders slumped, like the weight of the world had been suddenly removed. He shook his head, thumbing thoughtfully at the strap of his bag before his head jerked upward once more as a sudden thought occured, his eyes glinting in the lamplight. "Oh.  _Oh!_  And the  _kitchen,_ Cas. It's  _awesome._ I'm gonna make you the best goddamn burger  _ever._ I don't care if you don't need to eat, you'll eat it and you'll fuckin'  _like_  it." He grinned excitedly for a second and then let it fade into a more subdued hope. "So... zap down, okay? It's time to come home, Cas. 'Cause you—  _we—_  we actually _have_ one now." 

Dean hefted the duffel and slowly, purposefully, turned to take one last look at the full room, like he was half-expecting a new addition to it. It remained empty, and he shook his head with a wry smirk and headed for the door.

Ellie finished rounding the doorframe of the next room down the hall right as the latch clicked fully into place. She listened to the hunter's muffled footsteps as they treaded purposefully in the direction of Sam and their car, and made no move to go after him.

He didn't need her thanks. He'd saved her life and it wasn't even something he felt needed to be acknowledged. It was just who he was... what he did _._

It wasn't her place to offer comfort, even though he so clearly needed it. Dean obviously knew who and what he needed it from. 

 _"I can't,"_ he'd said. 

And she understood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH.  
> I struggled a lot with this one.  
> I didn't care for Ellie. Not because she was a bad person or anything, she was just... BORING. She felt more like a plot device than a character, and really, that's all she was.  
> So in the end, I feel like I just fell back on my normal third-person narrative because I COULD NOT coax a personality out of her.  
> GAH. Whatever. I'm done. I'm tired of stressing over it, so I'm posting it and never reading it again. (Okay, that was a lie. I went and edited it.)  
> Portia, up next.


	5. Portia

Dean Winchester was setting off every single one of her instincts in a way that she hadn't anticipated.

In human form, she could generally ignore it, since most of her senses were dulled and all she had to work with was that mouth and all the stupid, asshole-ish things that came out of it. Dean talked a big game, was quick to anger and even quicker to judge, and his sense of humor sucked. Portia didn't like him. To be fair, half the time it seemed like his own brother didn't like him, so she didn't feel too bad about that. She wanted him gone— wanted the Winchesters to do what they'd become so famous for and just _leave_.

In canine form, things got a little more complicated; but at the same time they didn't. As a dog, many of the human cares faded away into the background— it wasn't like they weren't there, because they _were..._ they were just... distant. Everything was so much simpler when her biggest concern was whether James was sleeping soundly or not.

But then the whirlwind mind that was Dean stepped into the picture.

Her human side _knew_ that Dean was an arrogant, bigoted prick and that she didn't want anything to do with him; but the second she had gotten close enough in canine form—

_Fear. Worry. Anger. Powerless. Helpless. Hapless. Hopeless. Pleasepleaseplease. Family. Friendship. Love. Protect. Brother. Sam. Sam. Sammy. Look after your brother look after Sammy can't do this alone don't let him down don't let him hurt— Family. Friendship. Loss. Angel. Mine. Castiel. Cas. Cas. Where are you come back come home miss you need you love you please—_

Like she said.... Complicated.

It wasn't _mind-reading_ , not really. That generally went beyond witch basics and into uncomfortably dark territory. If she was forced to put a name to it, she would call it empathy. She didn't get thoughts, she got _emotions..._ concepts. It was a dog thing— at least... she _thought_ it was. Like, how your dog just automatically knew that there was something wrong and did its best to cuddle you into happiness again. She wasn't even sure how she was getting names out of it. That had never happened before.

She could only suppose that those people... Sam and Cas, _brother_ and _angel_... were so deeply ingrained into Dean that their very names were carved into every thought or emotion he had. There were others— indistinct and far off, yes, but they were there. Especially after Spencer. _Dad. Ellen. Jo. Ben. Lisa. Benny. Bobby. **Mom.**_ Other people... other _lives_ that made up the one life of Dean Winchester. She had never met a human whose very existence was so completely centered around the continued existence of others. Friends. Family. But always, right there at the heart of it: **_Sammy. Cas._** Family. _Love._ His world.

It was a shame that he didn't like dogs, really. He would have made an excellent one, himself.

And that was where everything got screwed up. Because she _didn't like_ Dean Winchester. She didn't like the way he talked, the way he carried himself, the way he looked at her, the way he looked at _James._ But she _understood_ him on a level that a "normal" human probably couldn't. She knew that instinct, that need to shelter and protect the things you love most... to make them happy, keep them safe... keep them _close._

She remembered perfectly the moment when she had given herself to James and taken him for herself in return. They had forged a bond—a connection—that shattered boundaries and her world had stopped being hers and instead became _his... **theirs.**_

Dean could bleat all he liked about how creepy it was, about her being a pet— make allusions to slavery and bestiality and make overtly creeped-out faces at the thought, but when it came down to it, he had no room to judge. She belonged to James mind, body, and soul. Just as Dean had been claimed by the beings who had branded themselves onto his heart (or left shoulder, if the bizarre tingle of static energy surrounding it meant what she thought it did). Only difference was she spent a good portion of her time with four legs and fur; so what? She had half a mind to transfigure Dean into something fuzzy for a few days and see how Sam and the mysterious Cas reacted. She would be interested to hear his take on her life choices _then._

Maybe some other time. Right now, there was too much going on. Everything was in transit. They were taking a risk by giving James ten minutes to stuff his life into a duffel bag, and then they would have to leave. It was overwhelming— they were leaving behind their home, their community... it was frightening. But not their life. They were together... and that was all that mattered, in the end.

She didn't need to pack; the only thing she needed was currently trying to decide if taking his badge would be anything more than a sentimentality, so she took the brief respite as a chance to clear her head. Portia padded through the apartment on silent paws, gratefully allowing the simplicity of a canine's mind to clear away the horrors of the last few days. James was safe, bustling anxiously around their bedroom down the hall. He was safe and whole, so everything was alright.

Sam was downstairs, keeping a look out by the cars to make sure that no one—be it human, witch, or anything in between—caught up before they were ready to high-tail it, and Dean was— she cocked her head, ears perking as a rush of water disclosed Dean's current location as the bathroom. She laid down as the faucet shut off, resting her head on her paws and listening absently to the quiet rustling of the hunter drying his face and hands on a towel.

A tense silence wafted through the hallway and she had switched her attention to James, who was rattling noisily through the closet, before a voice—in a soft tone that she was very unfamiliar with hearing from the man—started a litany of words so quiet that she would have missed it from across the length of the hall had she been human.

"Hey, Cas," Dean murmured, tired and beaten and clearly seeking comfort, "How's it goin', buddy? Don't know about you, but we just had a doozy down here. _Witches._ " He snorted. "My favorite, y'know. Fun fact for ya: witch familiars are actually _other witches._ Did _you_ know that...? Of course you did, but _I_ didn't. I guess I just... don't really get the appeal, y'know? Sam went off on a _Harry Potter_ nerd trip about animagi or whatever, but I don't see it. I mean... why would you want to be a dog? Or a cat, or... just... why? It's _weird_ — not... _human."_ The bathroom door shuddered and there was a thump on the tile, and Portia could only imagine the freaked-out twist of Dean's face as he slid to the floor. "Eh," he finally sighed, sounding defeated, "Just another thing to add to the long list of shit I don't get about witches. Witches are friggin' weird, man. But...."

She lifted her head, listening to the quiet wonder seep into his voice.

"Weird dog-sex aside... I think I kinda... get it. Not the familiar part, but the... the _bond_ part." He coughed, and the tiny line of light seeping out from below the door flickered as he shifted. "Portia—uh, the familiar—when she talked about this thing between her and James... it—" There was a thud against the door as he probably dropped his head back against it. "It... sounded like _us,_ Cas. I mean, without the sex and the... the fur... and if you bring up feathers I will fuckin' punch you in the throat, but— is that what we have? 's just— _profound bond..._ that's what you said. It was a million years ago, I don't know if you even remember it... don't know why _I_ do, come to think of it... but— that's what you called it. Dunno, dude... I guess it's just got me thinkin'."

Back in their— _former_ —room, James zipped his bag and stood silently for a moment. She listened to the uncertain buzz of regret and loss playing through his mind as Dean proved that it really _had_ gotten him thinking and fidgeted absently with the shower mat.

"D'you know much about witches 'n' their familiars, Cas? I guess once you, uh— seal the deal or whatever, you get a direct line into your partner's head. Or... _something_.... I dunno how it works. But maybe—" He swallowed. "Maybe... you know, we should really look into downloading this psychic connection app for our _'bond.'_ " He forced a weak laugh. "At least then I'd know you were _alive."_ There was a succession of bumps and rustling noises as he got slowly to his feet. "Clock's still tickin', angel," he muttered, "Seriously, _don't_ make me come lookin' for you. I don't— I don't like what I turn into when I'm chasing you down. I don't wanna be that thing again, Cas. Hell, Purgatory... don't make me take the bloody way in Heaven, too. Because I _will_. You know if it gets me to you, I'll carve my way through every one of your dick brothers. But let's... let's just find another way, alright? Talk to me, angel. Please. Give me a sign— profound bond me— just... _something._ Cas... come ho—"

"Okay, I'm ready," James called wearily as he stepped out into the hallway.

Portia sprang to her feet, barely even registering the twinge of dizziness that always accompanied the sudden height difference between four legs and two as she turned to face him. Just as quickly, the bathroom door clicked open and Dean's footsteps trailed quietly over to them.

"Ready?" James asked softly, reaching for her hand.

She swallowed, slotting her fingers into the spaces made for them between his, and nodded. "Ready."

"Great. Let's get this circus on the road," Dean grunted from behind her and she rolled her eyes.

She was glad, however, that there was at least one person out there who Dean didn't have to put up such an unpleasant front for. She wondered if _Cas_ knew how privileged he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, wasn't really sure how to tackle this one. But it did, weirdly, bring Sirius to mind, so I dunno... I kinda tried to go that route? And I'm not sure about the whole psychic/empath thing. I have some ideas, but I'm not sure if I got them across very well. Eh.  
> Anyhoo.
> 
> Next up: Haley
> 
> We're getting near the end, folks!


	6. Hayley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really like Hayley... felt she was That Mom. I mean, I get believing you know what's right for your kid... but seriously, LISTEN TO THE ONES WHO KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH THAT SHIT. Idiot.  
> On that note, though, I've realized that the more I dislike a character, the more ramble-y their chapter is, 'cause I try so hard to justify them. Ugh.  
> I guess I wasn't a big fan of this episode as a whole. 'Til the last two minutes broke me in two. :(

Dean Winchester was not something she was ready to wrap her head around.  
  
She just didn't have the time... didn't have the inclination. He was a good guy— of course he was, she'd seen it in his eyes the second he'd caught sight of Oliver. He was good and decent but Hayley just... couldn't _deal_ with him right now; him _or_ his too-kind-too-smart-too-huge brother. They didn't fit into her world. But then again, it looked like she might have to reassess her world views a bit.  
  
She'd had _enough_. Enough of the confusion and the ache and the larger-than-life men, but Shane had popped up again and Oliver deserved to know him—deserved to understand what was happening—so what choice did she have? And maybe... maybe she wanted the chance to pick up from where she'd run away. Maybe they could... be a _family_... her and her doomed son and his Greek God father. God, this was _insane_. She'd thought it was bad enough with the _recurring deaths_ , she didn't need to add anything else to the equation, thank you!  
  
But now, on top of everything else: these _hunters..._ Men of Letters— _whatever_. With their secret lairs and fantastical books and dragon penises... and what on Earth was a "legacy?"  
  
Sam was hiding something, Dean was obviously preoccupied, and through it all, Oliver—her _son,_ the most important thing in the world—was quietly suffering, carrying a burden never meant for him. What good were these "professionals" if they couldn't even take a timeout from their own drama to help a little boy? And it was unfair, _yes,_ she knew that... because they _were_ trying to help. But this was her _baby_ and their answer was a _spell_ to summon _Zeus?_  
  
As if "Prometheus" wasn't enough to begin with. To be fair, her mythology was sketchy at best—most of what she knew about the Greek Gods came from Disney with a side order of hokey gospel music—but she didn't remember a Prometheus. If Shane's daily fate was anything to go by, though, he probably would've been a bit too intense for a kid movie, anyway. Zeus, at least, had seemed like a pretty decent guy, right? He made corny jokes and was a good dad for the five seconds of film he'd actually _been_ a father... surely he'd help a boy in need.  
  
And great, now she was actually _contemplating_ it— actually buying into the complete nonsense the Winchester brothers were dishing out. Gods, spellbooks, _magic...?_ When had this become her life? Oh, right, the day her son had died, except not really.  
  
Sam and Dean seemed so confident... in themselves, in their books, in their plan.... But how could she trust any of it? She was just... _normal_ ; a normal person, a normal mother... with a child so far from normal it wasn't even a dot on the horizon. And so, this had become her world. She would bear it, of course... for Oliver... no matter how unfair it was to either of them. But were these men... with their secrets, whether malicious or not, the way to do so?  
  
Hayley _wanted_ to trust them... she _did._ Sam was so earnest; he was calm and collected and clearly had the utmost faith in their knowledge. Dean was so compassionate; not even of her—which she almost would have been suspicious of, anyway—but of _Oliver._ She could see the way he tracked the boy worriedly out of the corner of his eye, and his concern helped to soothe her troubled mind just the slightest bit. After all, if she was going to trust anything in this new world of gods and monsters... surely it should be _that?_ Knowledge and compassion. What else did they have to go on?  
  
They were getting ready to leave. In a few minutes, she would get into a car with two supernatural crime-fighters and a _Titan_ and head off to forcibly summon an even- _more_ -powerful god and ask him to cure her son of his unfortunate recurring deaths. She... she just needed a second.  
  
The large library was dimly lit by the backup generators, and she settled herself into the back corner, hidden behind a bookshelf innocuously labeled "Angels" and packed with worn tomes. She almost laughed at that. It was ironic how proof of the supernatural could shake _faith_ so deeply— you'd think they'd corroborate each other or something. She curled up in the shadow of the bookcase and dropped her forehead onto her knees, eyes clenching shut as her arms came up to wrap her in calming darkness. She let out a long, shuddering sigh.  
  
Oliver had been teased into the kitchen by Dean with last-minute promises of the single most epic peanut butter, jelly, and bacon sandwich he would ever eat—which was actually very true, if Hayley had any say in the matter—so she knew he was safe. Sam had commandeered Shane into helping him pack the supplies for their summoning ritual—she barely managed to bite off her hysterical laugh at that—and they were likely milling around the car in hopes of escaping the awkward, foreboding atmosphere of the bunker. So she took a moment to herself to revel in the silent calm before the storm.  
  
Were they really going to go through with this?  
  
She combed her hands back through her hair as her head fell against the wall with a near-silent thump, and then a dull glint of faded gold drew her eye to the word _Angeli_ embossed in flowing script down the spine of a large, leather-bound volume. If she prayed right now... would anything even _hear_ her?  
  
The quiet echo of footsteps near the open archway sent her drawing further back into the shadows as she caught a glimpse of Dean over the row of books before her. "Hey, Hayley?" he called, rubbing tiredly at the back of his neck, "You in here? We're all set to head out!"  
  
 _No. **Please**... just a few more minutes._ She folded herself up over her knees again in an attempt to block him out.  
  
He waited patiently for a moment before an irritated expulsion of breath broke the silence. _"Women,_ man," he lamented to himself, "'We're leaving in just a few minutes, don't wander off,' Sam says. And what does she do—?" He shuffled over to the table in the center of the room, still stacked high with books and research. "Probably in the bathroom." There was a muffled thump as he absently shuffled through one of the piles of tomes.  
  
Hayley wondered idly if he needed a moment of silence to compose himself as well. How long did it take before you were desensitized to things like rituals and spells?  
  
"Cas," he said suddenly, quietly, and she jerked a bit, peeking wide-eyed over the shelf to see what he was talking about. There was nothing there. "I don't know if you can hear me. We've got some crossed wires somewhere or somethin'... and don't worry, that's next on my to do list."  
  
She frowned as she watched him lean back against the edge of the table and tilt his face toward the ceiling.  
  
"I gotta make this one quick, buddy, we're headin' out in a minute. Just figured... before we go, I should—" He huffed, shaking his head. "Sammy 'n' me... well, you know we've pulled some pretty stupid shit in our time. And I _know_ you know 'cause every time we do, you get this hilarious half-constipated, half- _I-will-smite-you-and-everything-you-hold-dear_ look—" A slow grin unfurled over his lips, eyes sparkling affection in the murky light. "—and really, it's gotten to the point where _I_ only know we're about to go off the deep end when I see that face... so—" He coughed, visibly reminding himself of his time limit. "Sorry, off topic. Point is... even _I_ know we're toein' a line here. We've taken on some pretty big shit— done angels and demons and Leviathans... hell, we got the fuckin' _devil_ under our belts...."  
  
 _You **can't** be serious._  
   
"But it's been a while since we took on a god _—_ even longer since I actually recognized the name."  
  
Oh, good lord, he _was_ serious, wasn't he?  
  
He smirked, but it seemed strained. "So, get out that adorable little smitey-constipated face, 'cause the Winchesters're about to summon _Zeus_." He paused for a beat, like he was waiting for some divine intervention as a reply. "Yup, you heard right... king of the Olympians, god of _thunder_ himself. Or is that Thor? Eh, either way it's been a while since one of us bit it from electrocution— should be fun."  
  
Hayley swallowed heavily. He was so flippant about death... even Shane didn't treat it with that level of irreverence and _he'd_ — had Dean actually _died?_ Had Sam?  
  
"Anyway. So, yeah... this is a big one, and... I— well...." He dropped his head, nudging at the book-pile by his left hand as the library reclaimed the somber tone that was actually appropriate for what he was talking himself— _Cas?_ —through. "I've been thinkin'. I'm not sure I'll make it back this time. I mean... that's not—" He huffed in frustration. "Listen, with my track record... I could die any minute. Any of us could— me, you, Sammy... 's just the way it is... the life we live. I get that, I accept it. I'm used to dying." He shrugged, and it was horrible how... _sincere_ that statement was. Green eyes glinted as they tilted once more to the ceiling, and they were more open than she'd seen them all day. "But... thing is, is I can't always be sure I'll come back... my good karma's gotta run out some time. Can't even say for sure where I'll end up. Off chance I get a trip upstairs? Great." He steeled himself determinedly. "I'll be knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's door 'til they send out my angel, and _bam_... problem solved. Hell? I'm sure Crowley 'n' I'll have some nice tea and muffins and torture... it'll be a blast. And Purgatory? Eh, doubt that one, but you never know, right? At least I'm reigning king of the island on _that_ particular _Survivor."_  
  
She felt horrified tears stinging her eyes at the casual mentions of things any human being should be stricken by— death, Hell, torture.... What kind of world had Oliver stumbled into?  
   
"Shit. When did I start rambling so much? I blame _you_ for this, y'know." Dean chuckled affectionately. "I never talked this much till I started leavin' you messages every night. _Anyway._ My point _is...."_ He spent a long moment with a silent war waging its way across his face, before he seemed to come to a conclusion. He stood to his full height, arms stretching out at his sides as his eyes drifted closed almost... _reverently_. "Cas... we're really temptin' fate with this one. And I've just been thinkin'... well, if it's finally that time...?" He took a deep, steadying breath. "I don't wanna go without sayin' it. You deserve to know. So... Cas— _Castiel_. I... I l—"  
  
The squeal of rubber-soled tennis shoes on tile introduced Oliver very suddenly into the library.

Dean froze, staring at the boy with a mixture of irritation and regret playing across his face before he quickly shut them down and schooled his expression. He took a large, instinctive step away from the table, like he could physically distance himself from the words he hadn't gotten out, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "Hey, buddy. Lookin' for your mom?" He slowly meandered toward Oliver, reaching out to splay a large hand over the boy's shoulder blades when he reached him, guiding him gently back out of the room. "Probably time to go, huh? Bet she's just powderin' her nose or somethin' before we...." His voice faded away down the hallway leading off toward the bedrooms and bathroom.  
  
Hayley rose to her feet, feeling a rush of horrible sympathy for the hunter—the _man—_ because _no one_ should have to think about saying their goodbyes every time they step out of their door. She clenched a fist determinedly. Whatever it took, she would save her son from Dean Winchester's fate.

No matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we draw to a close.  
> ...OR DO WE?
> 
> Keep an eye out for a couple of bonus chapters! Bwahaha.


	7. (Bonus) Sam

Dean Winchester was his big brother. End of story— but at the same time… _not._  
  
He'd been a lot of things for Sam over the years _—_ played a lot of roles _,_ many of which he never should've had to. Parent, guardian, punching bag, enemy, reminder of all the things Sam was trying to escape... Dean was his best friend and his other half and quite a few of the watts in his light at the end of the tunnel. Through their ups and their downs... through Apocalypses and days that they somehow, miraculously came out even, Dean had _been there_. Even when Sam hadn't deserved it, even when Dean had lost all faith in his brother, he was still right there with him.

Sam didn't think it was so selfish to hope that he always would be... but he _did_ know that it was probably a little impossible.  
  
Keeping Dean out of Heaven/Hell/Purgatory/any other yet-to-be-discovered afterlife was harder than keeping a goldfish alive _—_ not that he spoke from experience, since... y'know, freaking twisted as hell childhood and all that—he was just too brash and headstrong and too goddamn _self-sacrificing_ to hold back.

The list of shit that Dean would put his own head on the chopping-block for was ridiculously long; friends, family, complete strangers, the world at large... you name it, Dean'd probably bargained his own life for it at one point or another. He was just like that— he'd never really seen his own worth; and maybe that was Sam's fault for not getting around to telling him until a few decades in.

There was a second list… one that was kind of terrible and probably shouldn’t exist for someone who was so often put in a situation where it could come into play. Because, even though the first list might've been straight-up stupid and something Sam couldn’t really get behind, it was still… _good_ , noble, and the stuff you write legends about— the stuff you write _gospels_ about, apparently. The second was much shorter. The second list was the list of things that Dean would sacrifice the things on the first list for. Or, in a less convoluted thought— the things that Dean would— and, horribly, _had_ sacrificed friends, family, complete strangers, and the world at large for. For a long time, it’d had exactly one bullet-point:

  *  _Sammy_



Now, there were two:

  *  _Sammy_
  * _Cas_



Sam wasn’t really sure when that second name had snuck on there. In a weird way, it felt like it’d always been there, but like… it was invisible or something, just waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

That’s how _most_ things with Cas felt, really. He’d only been around for a few years, but Sam could barely remember a time without him; Dean and Cas had been best friends for about five years, give or take, but they’d been _BFFs_ in the most literal sense of the term… key part being _forever_ ; Dean had been in love with Cas for a year, maybe two (at least, that’s when Sam had started to notice), but at the same time, it’d been obvious from day one.

That was the crux of it, really. Cas had snuck up on them— they never saw him coming because he’d always been there.

Except now he wasn’t.

And it was killing Dean. Oh, he was putting on a good show… just like Sam was doing a _great_ job of covering up the fact he was coughing up more and more blood every day. ‘Cause that’s what Winchesters _did_ : hide the things that were slowly, sometimes literally, devouring them from the inside.

But Sam could read it on his brother’s face. Dean was, to the untrained eye, _fine._ For about a minute, he’d been even _better_ than fine— he’d been comfortable for the first time that Sam could remember… comfortable with his life, with himself… who he was, what—and _who—_ he wanted. It had been… _awesome._

And then something had gone down that they’d missed; which was fine, for the most part… they were generally used to being out of the loop. Except this time it was about _Cas,_ and if you don’t see the problem with that, Sam would like to refer you to The Second List, as discussed above. Something was hurting Dean’s angel, and he couldn’t even _do_ anything about it. Shit hit the fan, Cas bailed, and now Sam was getting the same really horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that had been messing with him the few weeks before _Superman_ became a taboo subject around his brother.

The only difference this time 'round, really, was Dean. Because he _knew_ why Cas’ silence and absence bothered him this time— knew _exactly_ why every day that passed without the flutter of wings, every week that went by without that ridiculous _‘Hello, Dean….’_ every prayer that went unanswered was slowly stealing the life from him.

Dean knew. They both knew. Hell, Sam was pretty sure _all three_ of them knew.

But they were Winchesters. And they weren’t supposed to talk about it.

There was a fucking _difference_ between Dean _never having_ a light at the end of the tunnel and _losing_ the light at the end of the tunnel. And Sam was not going to let his goddamn _stupid_ tragic hero brother give up on his future just because he thought their goddamn _stupider_ antihero angel had cut and run.

At least _one_ of the three of them had to be the voice of reason; Sam just felt like it’d been his turn for too long.

But he wasn’t about to complain. Dean had carried him out of the fire when he was too young to even understand what he was doing and then never really put him down… it was only fair that Sam be the one to finally lead him into the light.

Which he couldn’t freaking _do_ if the damn light wasn’t even around! Jeez. _Rude._

To save Dean, he needed to save Cas, because somewhere along the way they’d stopped being Dean and Cas and started being DeanandCas and maybe the angel hadn’t been kidding when he’d casually dropped the phrase _‘profound bond.’_ But that was right around when Castiel discovered the joys of sarcasm and Sam seriously never knew what to believe from him anymore.

So, bottom line: they needed Cas back. That was all there was to it.

Dean could grit his teeth and casually throw out as many _‘anything from Cas?’_ s as he wanted; Sam could turn the page of his book without really seeing it and just as casually reply, _‘not a peep.’_ They’d keep their mouths shut, but they both knew they were better with their best friend around.

Sam hissed as the cold water splashed across his flushed cheeks, rubbed it in roughly and then grabbed blindly for the towel. He buried his face into warm, recently washed— _still_ not over the washing machine they _didn’t have to feed quarters_ —fibers and sighed heavily.

The deal with Artemis had been an uncomfortably close call. There was too much on the line for them to bite it on some stupid side-hunt. They really needed to be more careful.

He groaned, dragging the towel tiredly down his face and shaking his hair back. He needed to sleep for about a hundred years before he tackled the Cas problem, since he had a feeling it was going to get unpleasant and messy and out-of-hand just like most everything else having to do with the angel.

Halfway through the motion of hanging the towel back on the rack, he stiffened, hazel eyes catching sight of the splotches of crimson marring the neutral tan fabric. _Fuck._ He grimaced, rolling it back up into a ball and clenching it in his fists before cautiously opening the door to scout the hallway for any stray Deans standing between him and his bedroom and hamper.

Not that a bloody towel was particularly _rare_ with the Winchesters; quite the opposite, really. It was just… well, he kind of had the feeling that Dean _knew…_ felt like the older hunter would be able to pick this particular stain out of a lineup of other stains and say _‘ **That** one, right there. That’s the one my baby brother’s been lying to me about after I made him promise to stop with the goddamn lying.’_

Jesus, he needed to go to sleep.

Dean’s room—with its strange half-emptiness and The Chair that Sam hadn’t drudged up the balls to question—stood between Sam’s and the bathroom, and the younger Winchester approached on tip-toe.

It had become something of a nightly ritual to pause outside the door and listen for the daily Cas update. He actually missed them more often than not— Dean either rambled at the angel earlier in the day, or later, or did it in his head, or—like that one horrible week after the thing with the Nazis—didn’t talk to Cas at all… and that had just been horrible for everyone involved. But sometimes, he would get a quick glimpse into his brother as Cas saw him.

They weren’t prayers… not _really._ Maybe that’s what they technically had to be in order to reach the angel—if they even _did_ , but Sam so did _not_ want to contemplate _that_ possibility right now—but they didn’t feel like _prayer._ It was like that thing that couples do in cheesy sitcoms where they sit down for dinner and talk about their day. Because that _was what he was doing,_ even if Dean would never admit to it. They were usually light-hearted, and that was great because it didn’t actually feel like Dean was faking it for Cas like he sometimes—most of the time—did for Sam. And maybe it hurt to know that Cas was the one who got that side of him, but… he got it, really. Jess and Amelia had seen that part of _Sam_ , so it only made sense for Cas to see that part of _Dean_.

Sometimes he wondered if Dean even knew what was coming out of his mouth when he did it, or if Cas—even just the _idea_ of Cas—put him so at ease that he just… let everything go.

Maybe he should feel bad about listening in… especially as they’d gotten progressively more and more worried and always ended with a _‘Come home,’_ that came closer to begging than Sam had ever imagined from Dean…. But he couldn’t help it. Dean hid from him— always had, maybe didn’t even realize he was doing it anymore. It was so nice to know what was actually going on with him. Or at least, a bit _more_ than he gave to Sam… since even Cas still probably got an edited version.

“—covering pretty good,” Dean’s muffled voice was saying from beyond the door.

Sam frowned, holding his breath and leaning forward hesitantly. Dean sounded… _broken._

“But I know that he’s hurting, and this one was supposed to be on me.”

Oh. _Oh._ Shit.

 So, for all that we've been through, I'm asking you....”

That… that _was_ a prayer. Fuck, that wasn’t Dean _talking_ to his _best friend_. That was Dean _praying_ to his _angel_. That was one of the ones he was really, _really_ never supposed to hear.

“You keep a lookout for my little brother, okay?” Dean’s voice hitched just slightly, gruff and breathy like Sam hadn’t heard since right after the older hunter broke out of Purgatory.

Sam’s face crumpled and he silently dropped his forehead against the doorframe. Of course. ‘ _It's not that you don't trust me. It's that you can only trust you.’_ He’d said it in anger, feeling hurt and so small because Dean didn’t think he could do it—didn’t want him to _have to_ , if he was rational about it. He wasn’t even sure if he’d really _believed_ it, even as he’d said it, but—

Dean didn’t _trust_. Dean especially didn’t trust anyone with _Sam._

But he trusted Cas.

Sam just... really hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed.

Especially since— well, if he’d had any doubt about Dean’s feelings for the angel… _that_ would’ve cleared things right up.

“Where the hell _are_ you, man?” Dean asked raggedly, and Sam had to stop himself from tossing up his own prayer that would have more than a few choice words and would probably get him smote.

He’d already tried, anyway. And if Castiel wasn’t answering _Dean…_ well, _Sam_ didn’t have a chance in Hell.

“Cas, _please….”_ Dean whispered beseechingly after a long pause that Sam was more than sure he’d spent searching the entirety of the bedroom for a glimpse of trench coat.

He tore himself away from the door and forced his reeling feet into a somewhat coordinated sneak down the hallway to his own room, towel clenched between his fists. He wasn’t ready to hear his brother—his big brother, his _hero—_ beg so brokenly for something that wasn’t coming.

When they got Cas back, he was going to rip him a fucking new one for putting Dean through this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to who's next? :D


	8. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my friends, the time has come. It's the 20th of March. Our angel is coming back tonight! *Screech of mingled joy and pain*  
> So, I give to you the final chapter that will hopefully tie us back in to the actual show.
> 
> Before that, though, I just wanna say "OH MY GOD, THANK YOU" to everyone who reviewed and especially those of you who reviewed every chapter and fangirled right the heck back at me when I rambled. Seriously, guys, you were (ARE) awesome and I really hope I'll continue to see you! (Either on here, or maybe on Tumblr! I JUST WANT TO BE FRIENDS.)
> 
> And anyway. On that note, I present to you....  
> CAS.

Dean Winchester was the last dwindling pinpoint of light he could see in a world of stifling darkness.  
  
Or perhaps he had it wrong; it may be the other way around and Dean was really the last lingering blight holding a blinding blaze of holy perfection back from consuming and washing him clean.

He was lost— losing himself… losing his mind, his grace… everything that he ever dared to hold dear and claim for himself. He was fading— drifting away from _Cas..._ drawn toward _Castiel_ and divinity and the cleansing light of Heaven.

It was his nature, his purpose, his lot—

He had never been more afraid in all his timeless existence.

He was not supposed to have a self _to_ lose… his mind, his grace were Heaven’s… he should not dare to claim, to desire, to love—

But, _oh,_ how he loved

Dean _._ Sam. His friends…. His—

He was lost— losing himself… losing

 _Dean,_ his—  
  
Dean, whose voice was the last anchor. That familiar, beautiful voice wrought with pain and fear and so, _so_ much love….

He was lost— losing himself… losing his grip on

Dean.

Dean’s voice

and _another_ …

calling, pleading, and demanding….

And Castiel, caught between. He wavered uncertainly and stood, dazed, upon the precipice.

 

 

_"Cas?"_

 

**"Castiel."**

_"Hey, Cas...."_

Hello, Dean.

**"Listen to _me_ , Castiel."**

_“What d’ya say, angelcakes? You, me… bucket of popcorn…?"_

I would like that, Dean.

  **"Stay where you are _needed_ , Castiel."**

_“I thought you were gonna stick around? Uh, permanently, I mean."_

 I want to be there, Dean.

**"You have duties _here_ , Castiel."**

_“I’m done if you are, Cas.”_

Don't give up on me, Dean.

**"Turn _away_ , Castiel."**

" _I believe in **you** , Cas. I know I don't say it, at least not **enough**... but I do."_

I believe in you too, Dean.

**"Believe in your _brothers_ , Castiel."**

_"Talk to me, angel. Please."_

I'm scared. I'm losing myself, Dean.

  **"You belong to _us_ , Castiel."**

_"I don't wanna go without sayin' it. You deserve to know. So... Cas— _ **Castiel**_. I... I l—"_

 I love you. I miss you, Dean.

  **"He has no _place_ in you, Castiel."**

_"I need you to hear me...."_

 I… I hear you… Dean.

**“Block _him_ out, Castiel.”**

_“Where the hell **are** you, man?”_

 Dean.

 **" _He_ ** **has no hold over you, Castiel.”**

_“Cas, **please** ….”_

 Dean…. _Please. **Dean**._

**"You are an angel of _Heaven_ , Castiel."**

 De—

  **“Castiel.”**

 …Yes.

_“Cas…?”_

And Castiel was consumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...THE END.


End file.
